


strikeout swinging

by 100demons



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Nippon Professional Baseball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2781575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/pseuds/100demons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abe has learned to read pitchers away from sixty feet six inches, crouched behind the plate and a steel grid mask; this close, Mihashi’s wide open face is almost painful to look at, his emotions hyper magnified and unreal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strikeout swinging

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pocari-tears](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pocari-tears).



> happy holidays, dear  
> [written for oofuri secret santa]

It’s the first game back home after a road trip without a break in between and Abe can feel the bone of his knees wear through tender skin, each step he takes followed by an aching echo deep inside. Slowly, with rubbery fingers, he fumbles with the buckle of his belt and pulls the entire length out through the loops of his uniform pants, letting it fall onto the ground unheeded.

It’s dead quiet in the clubhouse. No one is speaking above a whisper if they’re speaking at all because it’s another fucking night and another fucking loss and Abe can’t help but slump into his chair and close his eyes.

“Abe-kun.”

He doesn’t bother to look up. “I can’t do press tonight,” he says flatly.

_Abe-san, what could you say what went wrong the game? Could it be that the team feels too much pressure to break the now nine game losing streak? You went oh for four tonight, with a walk and two strikeouts. Was Maeda’s slider more difficult than expected? It seemed like Haruna shook off your signs every other pitch, was it difficult to communicate with him tonight? Do you think that was a contributing factor to your loss? What do you think it’ll take for this team to win again, Abe-san? Abe-san, Abe-san, Abe-san..._

“It’s not that, though I wouldn’t let them get anywhere near you when you’re acting like this.”

Momoe’s cool fingers wrap around his chin and she tilts his head up, grip gentle but firm.

“There’s been a trade.”

Abe jerks his head back. “ _What_?”

“Before you get worked up, it’s not anyone on the active roster. We sent a prospect on the farm for a relief pitcher from the Eagles.”

“I thought… isn’t Kuroda supposed to be coming up from the farm to replace Igawa’s spot in the bullpen after he tore his rotator cuff?”

Momoe grabs the bill of her cap, tilting it down even further. “He is, but Kojiro-san wanted a guy to pad the back end of the rotation. The new pitcher’s supposed to be a converted starter, only worked out of the pen for the last couple of months or so because his fastball’s been getting smacked around.”

“And you’re telling me now because…” Horror slowly dawns on Abe’s face. “Don’t tell me he’s here right now.”

Momoe claps him on the shoulder and squeezes hard enough that it’ll leave permanent dents in his bone. “He’s waiting in my office, I thought you’d might like to say hello.” She gives him a sharp-toothed smile.

Abe sags deeper into his chair, fighting the urge to crawl onto the floor and ignore the world for the next century. “Alright,” he sighs, burying his face in his hands. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

 

* * *

 

 

He’s a skinny kid with blonde hair that sticks out everywhere underneath his new Hanshin Tigers cap. Abe figures a good wind could knock him over on the mound, God help him if ever ended up in the middle of a brawl. Haruna would probably snap him in half just by looking at him.

“So, what do you throw?”

The pitcher whirls around in his seat like a whip, all elbows and knees and flailing angles. “I-- um were you um-- talking-- me?”

Abe’s grip tightens around his bottle of green tea. “No, I was talking to the empty chair next to you.”

“I--” The pitcher wobbles, mouth opening and closing like a broken nutcracker. Abe desperately wants to beat a backbone into him but settles for chugging his green tea manfully.

“Alright, let’s start over.” Abe points at the pitcher’s chest. “You’re the new pitcher, Mihashi Ren, formerly of the Rakuten Eagles.” He then points at his own chest. “Abe Takaya, catcher for the Hanshin Tigers. Hi.”

Mihashi turns bright pink. “Oh,” he says, in a very small voice.

Abe sighs. “Are you a rookie or something?”

“Drafted last year out of college,” Mihashi mumbles.

“Is this your first full year in the bigs?”

Mihashi nods.

Abe leans heavily against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest. They must be the same age but Abe feels positively ancient when he looks at Mihashi’s wide eyes, his brand new cap jammed on his head, as yet untouched by rosin or sweat. Abe’s been playing pro for nearly four years now, been to the playoffs once, and caught nearly a hundred and twenty games two years in a row. He can feel every single inning in his knees with each shy glance Mihashi gives him.

Abe unfolds his long body from the jamb and slowly hobbles his way over to the adjoining seat by Mihashi in front of Momokan’s desk. He settles into it with a solid grunt and stretches his legs out, casually banging them against Mihashi’s feet, who quickly draws back like he’s been burnt.

“So, what do you throw?”

“Oh, um.” Mihashi swallows. “Uh. Fastball, slider, shuuto, curve.”

“Not bad. What do you top out at?”

“After-- after I moved to the pen I-- I got it up to around 144 km/h.” Mihashi clamps his mouth shut right away as Abe gives him a long, considering look.

“That’s, uh, that’s. Okay,” Abe says finally. “What was your best when you were starting?”

“136,” Mihashi says, voice low and miserable.

“Huh.” No wonder the Eagles are happy to dump him onto the Tigers-- Mihashi is throwing at Little League speeds as a starter and the bare minimum as a relief pitcher. It’s a miracle he’s made it this far professionally, he’s basically tossing the ball to the batter and hoping that maybe people are stupid enough to lay off the pitch.

Abe feels a pounding ache build up in the back of his eyes.

“Icanshowyou!”

“What?”

“I can-- I can show you my pitches!”

Abe opens his mouth, getting ready to shut the kid down-- he’s exhausted, mottled black and blue from Haruna’s wild pitches and caught a foul tip earlier than jammed his catching thumb back and left it sore and throbbing. He’s fucking tired of crouching behind the plate and giving signs that don’t even matter and losing games by one run and even the single bottle of green tea he’s allowed a day because the league’s too chickenshit to allow its players to have any real caffeine.

Mihashi’s hand curls into a familiar shape, gripping an imaginary fastball across the seams, eyes glimmering in the shadow of his cap. “Let me show you.”

Abe swallows and looks away.

God, he hates pitchers.

“You get ten pitches,” he says, knocking back the rest of his drink and tossing the bottle away. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Later, Abe will replay the recording of that first session over and over again, slowing it down to each frame, watching Mihashi kick his leg up, raising his glove high, limbs smooth and fluid and concentrated into one single point, into that pitch. The brim of his cap tilts down for a moment to shade his eyes, yellow and white HT stark against the solid black.

It’s completely at odds with the shy, bumbling rookie sitting hunchbacked in Momokan’s office, hands wringing in his lap.

On the mound, with a glove in one hand and a baseball in the other, he’s a _pitcher_ , and Abe can’t even feel the bone in his knees grind against cartilage as the first fastball settles gently in his mitt, right into the pocket.

Abe moves his mitt around high in, high away, down in and down away, and each and every time Mihashi’s fastball flutters right into his glove neatly, with a little downward trailing action that gives Abe dreams of batters hitting them right into beautiful double plays to end the inning.

His curve’s slow and fat, prime home run fuel, and his shuuto is little more than his fastball with a sharp little tail into the batter, but his slider has a filthy break in it that he can throw for strikes. Abe’s already thinking of pitching sequences and the grounders from a beautifully executed pitch, of a serene march of zeroes across the box score, of complete game shutouts.

Abe cuts the sessions with a tap across his chest protector and stands up, barely even noticing how stiff his legs have become.

“You said you threw the hardest at what, 144 km/h, maybe?”

Mihashi nods, looking stricken. Off the mound, he’s returned to his diminutive self, cheeks pale underneath a summer tan.

“Ok, ok,” Abe nods. He can work with this, if Mihashi can keep this kind of control up and keeps his feel up for the slider, this is more than workable.

“Your curve stinks,” Abe says, frankly, and Mihashi takes a tiny step back, looking horrified.

“Oh--”

“Your fastball’s slow enough as it is and there’s not that much of a velocity difference between that and the curve to make up for how much it hangs in the air. Is it your worst pitch?”

Mihashi swallows.

“I’m gonna answer for you and say yes,” Abe says, filling in the awkward silence. “But your slider’s good, I like the speed you have on it, good break. Your shuuto’s only got some movement but it’s late and you’re consistent with your release points. How many games have you won so far? Or saved, I guess, since you converted. Holds?”

“I--um, um, uh--” Mihashi brings his glove up to his face, until only a small fraction of his eyes peer out from behind the leather.

 _Fucking pitchers,_ Abe thinks, vaguely irritated but mostly watching in horrified fascination at the kinds of faces Mihashi is making.

“Uh--”

“I’m not going to judge you or anything, alright? Clean slate. Everything fresh. I just need to know, so I can figure out how much experience you’ve had and what kind of work you’ve done with your stuff against batters in the league.”

“None,” Mihashi says, voice so quiet Abe has to strain to hear him.

“Oh, well, that’s fine. Still new and all. Any losses?”

“They-- they--” Mihashi struggles and Abe is seized with the urge to pound Mihashi’s back and forcibly eject the words from his mouth.

“They?” Abe prompts, gritting his teeth.

“One game,” Mihashi says with numb lips.

“You lost one game?”

Mihashi shaves his head violently. “I’ve only… ever…”

“Oh,” Abe says, and reevaluates everything. “You’ve only played in one game? How bad was it?”

Mihashi whitens and crumples in on himself.

Abe swallows, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair awkwardly. “Listen, what’s important is that your forget about stuff like that, alright? There’s something like a hundred and thirty games a year, you can’t think about that one bad day forever. There’s always a new game to worry about tomorrow.”

“But I’ve only had that one day,” Mihashi whispers, lips turning white where his teeth are digging into the soft flesh. “Will-- will-- will I ever even have another?”

Mihashi is one pitch away from giving up a grand slam after a bases loading walk: Abe can see it in the fine tremors in Mihashi’s non-pitching arm, the whites of his eyes bright under the shadow of the cap, the nervous slash of his mouth clamped shut. Abe has learned to read pitchers away from sixty feet six inches, crouched behind the plate and a steel grid mask; this close, Mihashi’s wide open face is almost painful to look at, his emotions hyper magnified and unreal.

If this were a real game, if this were Haruna _before_ , Abe would call time and trot up to the mound casually, hiding his mouth behind his mitt, face guard hiked up and resting on his skull cap. If this were Haruna, Abe would make an idle comment about the weather or the noise of the crowd, slowly waiting for him to collect himself and remember how to pitch again. If this were Haruna, Abe would nod and pat him on the back, subtly marking a one on the cloth of his uniform, right above his jersey number. Fastball straight down the plate. (Now, Abe has stopped calling time and instead just crouches behind the plate, waiting for the few pitches Haruna deigns to hurl over the plate.)

Mihashi looks up at him, uncertain.

Abe wonders what could have made him so afraid-- and it couldn’t have been just one bad game, a trade from one team to another.

“I’m your catcher,” Abe says quietly, and he claps Mihashi’s shoulder with his throwing hand. “I will catch every single one of your pitches and make you a winner.”

Soft curls of blond hair stick to Mihashi’s slick forehead as he pulls his hat forward even more, jamming it on tightly. “With signs and everything?”

Abe squeezes tight, feeling bone press into the skin of his palm. Mihashi doesn’t flinch.

“I’m your catcher,” he says again and gently, slowly, uses his mitt to tip the brim of Mihashi’s cap back, throwing his whole face into light. “How could I do any less?”

 

* * *

 

Hauna sails into the mess hall in sweats and an oversized pullover, trailed by a thin, anxious man in a suit and round glasses and clubhouse attendant dutifully taking notes.

“The only day the CM can shoot is tomorrow, they’re paying you millions of yen for this endorsement. You _have_ to go, Haruna-kun.”

“Can’t, I’m starting tomorrow. Yano, I left my laundry bag by my locker, make sure that they don’t lose track of my lucky cup and belt this time. I need my glove restrung and a better brand of neatsfoot oil, the last one made the leather too slick. A friend from back home came out on a business trip and he wants to catch tomorrow’s game-- make sure you reserve him a seat in one of the nice boxes or something.”

“Yes, Haruna-san,” Yano murmurs, tucking the notepad away into a pocket and then fading away into the background, leaving just the thin man in the suit, visibly aging with every moment in contact with Haruna.

“If you cancel on this shoot as well, they’re going to take back the contract!”

“And someone else will give me a new one,” Haruna says serenely, picking up his specially marked tray, along with a quart of milk and a cup full of protein powder.

“The shoot will be early morning, it won’t disturb your routine at all. Please, Haruna-kun, think of your reputation at least!”

Haruna tilts his head. “My reputation?”

The man falters, Adam’s apple bobbing. “What I meant was--”

“I,” Haruna says, lethally quiet, “have a reputation as a twenty game winner. I won the Sawamura last year and I’ve lead the league in strikeouts three times. I took a no-hitter into the ninth in my rookie year and won the Central League Rookie of the Year. _That’s_ what my reputation is based on. Not as some fucking pretty boy who smiles at the camera and gets paid to pretend his shit doesn’t smell. I’m not doing the CM. End of discussion.”

The man bows stiffly, lips pressed into a razor thin line. “As you wish. I’ll see to the matter.”

“Good,” Haruna says and plops across Abe carelessly, scattering his chopsticks all over the table.

“Harsh,” Abe observes, watching Haruna’s agent walk stiltedly out of the room, the jagged lines of his shoulderblades pressed through the thin fabric of his suit.

“He knows I’m starting the game tomorrow. There’s no way I could have done the shoot, money be damned.” Haruna pops the cap off the jug of milk and pours the entire cup of protein powder into it, recapping and shaking it furiously.

“Hmm.” Abe pokes at his chicken donburi, idly pushing around a chunk of rice in the bottom of his bowl.

“So, I thought we could work on my video at five, catch a session or two with the camera, do some more analysis, then finish up around six so I have time to get slaughtered on the table by the trainers.” Haruna knocks back his giant protein shake, wiping the leftover milk mustache with the back of his hand.

“Can’t,” Abe says, finally scooping the rice up into his spoon and eating it.

“What?”

“Pitching coach Maddon says he’s free to go over mechanics with you,” Abe mumbles around a mouthful of food. He swallows, adding, “And batter analysis, even though you never listen and just throw high heaters all the time like everyone’s stupid enough to keep swinging.”

“But they _do_ because I throw 157 km/h at my worst,” Haruna says pointedly. “And what the hell do you mean you can’t? We always do this the day before a game.”

“If you want someone to catch, Akiyama’s more than willing.”

“Akiyama’s the backup catcher!”

“And?”

“We always do this together!” Haruna shoves forward violently, his tray banging against Abe’s.

“Look, I’m really sorry but you do realize there are five other pitchers in the rotation, let alone the bullpen. I can’t schedule every moment of my life around you, Haruna. I’ve got work to do.”

“With who?” Haruna demands, kicking at Abe’s shins, which he deftly avoids.

“You hear about Mihashi?”

“What, the guy from the musho trade with the Rakuten Eagles?”

“He’s not useless,” Abe says flatly.

“He got traded for a twenty six year old farmhand who forgot how to swing a bat.” Haruna takes another swig of his shake before digging into his heaping pile of pasta. “When they do trade, which is almost never, they don’t get good players. It’s always pinch hitters or washed up fringe pitchers, it’s like an unwritten rule.”

“He’s not useless,” Abe repeats. “He doesn’t throw at lethal speeds, which is pretty much in line with the rest of the league, Mr. Statistical Outlier. He’s got two more pitches in his arsenal than you and he’s got good control. Best of all, he actually listens to me when I tell him what to throw.”

“So, he’s like a little minion you have, telling him what to do and everything,” Haruna snorts.

“Is that what you think I do? As a catcher?”

“Oi, you know that I--”

Abe shoves his chair back and stands up, looking down at Haruna’s open face, at the tiny little lines digging into the corner of his mouth, the careful way his left hand is wrapped and tucked against his side, like a sword lying in its sheath.

“You know the two games you pitched during the losing streak?”

Haruna’s mouth stills and his eyes close off. “Yes?”

“You left in the middle of the fifth inning for the first one. Runners on the corners because of a walk and an infield hit but with two outs. You left at eighty pitches. We just needed one more out, Haruna, the next batter up was their ninth hitter. You left and the game blew open in favor of their side. The second game, you left a two nothing game with nobody on at the end of the sixth because you said you couldn’t throw just another inning, couldn’t do any more than eighty. You know how shaky our bullpen is right now, just one more inning from you is one less inning the other team has to exploit our weakness. I’m not asking you to pitch complete games on short rest. Just be the _ace_ we need you to be.” Abe clenches his catching fist tight, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm.

“I’m getting posted this winter,” Haruna says and he meets Abe’s gaze straight on and there isn’t any shame in his eyes, only a burning honesty and dedication. Abe hates him a little more for that. “I’m going to pitch in the States next year. I can’t risk my arm. Not this year. I pitched over two hundred innings last year in the regular season alone, Abe, I got us all the way to the Climax Series last year. But I can’t blow out my elbow and lose my chance this winter. I can’t.”

“And what about us? What about this team?”

Haruna closes his mouth tight and says nothing.

Abe laughs, short and harsh and cutting like a buzzsaw. “Every fucking time.” He breathes in raggedly. “You’d think I’d have learned by now.”

“You could make it there, you know,” Haruna says, soft, his eyes unreadable. His free hand is fiddling with a paper chopstick wrapper.

“What, in the MLB? Is that the only thing that matters? Is that how I should judge my self-worth as a player, by the success I find in another country?” Abe gives him a lopsided smile, the edges of it sharp and bitter.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then let me tell you something about what matters to me, Haruna Motoki.” Abe leans down over the table, bracing himself with his throwing hand on the table, and closes in on Haruna’s face. At this distance, he can see the very faint tan line cutting across Haruna’s face, from the shadow cast by his cap and the sun beating down during a summer game, patches of bristly stubble from a missed shave, the outline of Haruna’s pupils, ringed with a golden brown.

“I’m a Tiger, before anything else. This is my team, this is my game, this is what I will spend the rest of my career, living and breathing and fighting for.”

Abe breathes out, slowly, catching the tremor in Haruna’s full mouth as he flinches back, ever so slightly.

“The difference between you and the useless pitcher Mihashi? He’s been here for three days and if you cut him open, he’ll bleed black and yellow.” Abe rests his catching hand on Haruna’s shoulder, thumb pressing against the bony jut of his collarbone.

“The Tigers took you with their first round pick five years ago, Haruna, and yet I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you care about anything here as much as you have about a phone call from the Yankees or the Sox.”

Haruna swallows, throat working. “Takaya--”

Abe looks down and away, squeezing Haruna’s shoulder one last time. “Akiyama’s waiting for you,” he says, suddenly feeling drained and wrung out.

He draws back, picking up his tray and pushing his chair aside as he moves away from the table. Haruna’s fading warmth burns like a white hot coal in the crook of his palm, in his catching hand, as he walks away.

Abe doesn’t look back.


End file.
